Constant bleeding. Mopping up unsightly messes. I almost stopped and wrote out the ideas, but I assumed I would remember them. And of course I didn't. What was it? Mortality? How death has always followed me -- at least in my brain? How I am always so wrong? Was it about my mother? Nothing frustrates me more than having something on the tip of my tongue. I should have stopped in my tracks and started writing. It's a lesson I am constantly learning.

I have a number of different Chess recordings on my computer. I am listening to all of them. When I do that, it's suddenly a dewy late summer in my brain. Days that started out hot and ended in chilly outdoor orchestra performances. Music stands sweating condensation on photocopied manuscript paper. My stand partner was supposed to photocopy the score and share it with me so I could have it in my archives, but he never did. What a shame. His name was Lowell, but his nickname was "Speedy."

The pain in my eyes is greater than the weight on my shoulders. Or is it.